


Fixer Upper

by snarechan



Series: Playing House [5]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Enemy Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath carries its own trials.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixer Upper

**Author's Note:**

> This is one-of-three sequels to [House of Lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603380), for anyone just joining me in the sharing of this series! Some content in the story touches on events in the prequels, but I tried to rehash them enough that it's not required reading (unless anyone would love more mobster!rusame, of course). For this one to make any sense, however, the first piece in the series should probably be enjoyed because this one follows what happens in HoL. 
> 
> And since I wasn't sure how to tag it properly, I do want to warn for intensive injuries and the care of treating them. The narration isn't so different from the other sections that I've written and they're meant to be rather technical, but what I didn't gloss over is still rather descriptive. Readers with sensitivities to blood/head wounds/etc are encouraged to skim or even skip this part. If anyone would like a summary of events I will be happy to provide them so the rest of the series can be enjoyed without anyone missing out. 
> 
> Beta read, as all of my _Playing House_ series has been, by Keppiehed. Their years of guidance has saved many a fic of mine and my writing wouldn't be as improved as it is now if it weren't for their support! If you need some prompts to get your own writing into high-gear, [resident-longwinded-anon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_longwinded_anon)'s [challenge post](http://resident-longwinded-anon.tumblr.com/post/99087361601/its-fairly-self-explanatory-i-think-i-was) is a good way to go! I don't think my writer's block would have been broken if I hadn't seen it.

On his back in the living room, Ivan heard the rustling that originated from the master bathroom. When Alfred had beat a hasty retreat while muttering profanities, he hadn't followed him. Not yet. Once he suspected enough time had passed, Ivan first tested if he was even capable of moving.

He sat up in increments. Placing the heel of one hand on his chin and the other on the back of his head, Ivan popped his neck into alignment. The rest of him protested as he resumed his footing; Ivan required the support of a side table until he found his equilibrium. His limp was worse than when he'd entered the house. Regardless, Ivan made it down the hallway and into the master suite.

Alfred had switched on a light in the bath, its yellowed glow illuminating the disorder left in his wake. Bookshelves were empty, their contents strewn across the floor as the pieces of furniture had been wrenched onto their sides. The mattress was askew, with pillows and blankets and the duvet cover tossed aside. Pictures were pulled off the walls. A large safe over their king-sized, wooden headboard was still wide open, albeit cleared out.

An art piece depicting a soaring bald eagle had hidden the vault from Ivan's knowledge. Its size had brought Alfred's taste into question, but now he had an inkling of what'd spurred the purchase of such a large painting. Ivan's personal method was more traditional: stashing his shotgun under the bed, within reach. That'd cost him, as Alfred must have discovered the weapon on his initial pass of the room.

The desk was also raided. In his rush, Alfred had pulled the drawers all the way out and failed to inspect them too closely because Ivan's spare handgun remained secured in its secret compartment. He didn't retrieve it but instead shrugged off his jacket and draped the article of clothing over the rollers of the overthrown office chair.

Approaching the racket in the bathroom, he stayed in the doorway and observed. Alfred slammed linen cabinet doors, leaving bloody handprints on the knotty pine, and paced the room. His double-breasted holster was discarded overtop the towel rack. When Ivan couldn't take it any longer he came up behind him, taking a chance that Alfred wouldn't elbow him in the sensitive part of his gut. He plucked a random pair of designer glasses off the rack situated on the vanity and held them out like a peace offering as he said, "Sit."

Alfred glared at the eyewear, and then at Ivan over his shoulder, before he followed through with his task. Fingers slid along the wrong side of the medicine cabinet and something clicked into place. The mirror swung open from right-to-left in opposition to what Ivan was used to, exhibiting a wealth of pharmaceuticals he knew for a fact weren't available over the counter. With that completed, Alfred snatched his glasses out of Ivan's hand and shoved past him. He situated himself on the lid of the toilet seat, opening the frames one-handed and setting them in place on the bridge of his nose.

Ivan busied himself with perusing the medicinal supplies. Not finding what he needed, Ivan turned around. His superior height allowed him easy access to the ventilation cover high up on the wall, which was hinged rather than screwed in. He retrieved the emergency supply bag he'd stashed there. Inside were sutures, scissors and bandages.

As he cut Alfred's top layers Ivan made certain his movements were choreographed and precise. The clothes were ruined beyond recognition; they would be difficult and painful to maneuver out of besides. Before he got too far Alfred gripped him by the wrist and asked, "Wait. Do you really have to?"

It was astonishing that he spoke to Ivan at all. His grudges could be legendary. There was once a two-week span where he hadn't seen him and Alfred refused to take his calls or return his messages. Ivan assumed the man had gone to great lengths to avoid him, overworking himself or staying in a hotel. He didn't recall the exact reason for the argument, though it was perhaps telling that Ivan _did_ remember how viciously his organization was struck during that span of time. He and his men had suffered numerous setbacks due to the rival gang that he was still dealing with.

"Regrettably, yes," Ivan said, keeping his hands steady. And he meant such talk; this suit was personally chosen by him. He'd custom ordered it for Alfred's birthday last year. The color blue didn't compare to the shade of his eyes, but it was enough to enhance them. He refused to ask if this was the reason for Alfred's hesitance, but he wished to think so. "These are just clothes. I can have others tailored for you."

At his claim, Alfred's grip slackened, then let go. Ivan finished slicing the fabric at the seams to see a scattering of abrasions. He accessed each one and determined that the marks were superficial. Once the hindrance was discarded he focused on untying the makeshift tourniquet to reveal the wound on his arm. Blood matted the agitated, swollen mess it had become. Alfred had pushed himself far too hard.

Without realizing it, Ivan had resorted to Russian, grumbling about rash behavior as he knelt level to the injury. Getting to one knee was a lengthier process than he'd ever admit, but Ivan managed. Alfred directed a scowl at him and said, "Don't get smart with me! I'll have you know I've dealt with way worse than this in prison."

"I will if I must. This is not the laceration I had given you," he admonished. During their confrontation in the private hanger, Ivan had overcompensated his aim. His shot had been intended to dislodge the other man's firearm, but Alfred had evaded wrong. The bullet wasn't embedded anywhere, so thankfully he wouldn't be digging it out of muscle or bone. It'd come near enough to break the skin and his actions since then had aggravated the lesion. There was no avoiding it – Ivan would need to prep the cut, and it'd require stitches, as he feared. Pulling out his lighter, he sterilized the scissors. Halfway through the procedure Alfred's comment registered, _really_ registered, for him.

"So you understand Russian, then?" Ivan asked, reverting to his mother tongue.

"Yes, a little bit," Alfred said. The accent was almost a perfect mimicry. In English he elaborated, "I sort of needed to learn, given the…circumstances."

Provided an alternate scenario he might have become embarrassed by the revelation. Quite a few instances existed in which he said things to or about Alfred that weren't meant to be understood, not really. Nevermind the phone calls Ivan thought he could take when they were in the same room together. How Alfred hadn't overheard something more telling by this point was a mystery.

But starting hours ago and accumulating here, it was clear that a number of facets about each other were unknown. With a snap he clicked the lighter off and waved the shears in the air to prevent burns before snipping away the loose, dead skin surrounding the open sore. To Alfred's credit he didn't cringe at the ministrations. Ivan was divided on being appreciative or agitated at the display and settled somewhere in-between.

"Alfred. Is that your real name?" Whatever he intended to ask, Ivan wanted— _needed_ _—_ to learn this. Comparatively, the detail wasn't so important in the scheme of things, but the question escaped him nonetheless.

At least Alfred seemed equally taken aback by the inquiry. In the beginning Ivan wasn't sure he was going to respond. The moment dragged on. Ivan concluded his work and grabbed for the flask in his trouser pocket. Reluctantly, Alfred said, "It is now. Why, don't you like it? You were saying it a lot—"

Shirt remnants were pressed into his arm, just under the wound, and vodka poured overtop to decontaminate it. Alfred sputtered, then bit the corner of his lip to ride out the pain. Confident he could safely proceed, Ivan sewed the injury closed with the hooked needle and thread. His fingers were swift and efficient at the undertaking.

"Breathe, Alik," he reminded him, keeping his eyes trained forward.

"Stop calling me—" Alfred took a shaky breath instead of finishing his thought, then did it again. His second attempt came across more as a hiccup, which turned out to be laughter. " _God_ , I figured I was so clever in dating someone as high profile as you. Who'd think to suspect me, huh? I thought I'd found the only Russian in the entire city unrelated to…" Alfred ran the heel of his palm under an eye, leaving a streak of red as he used his damaged hand.

He started back up with, "You never asked unnecessary questions or looked too deeply into anything. When you were relieved for those first few excuses I made to cover everything up I almost wondered if you were sleeping around or something. Maybe with that chauffeur of yours, Toris or whatever. No one should be this perfect."

Shaking his head, Ivan refrained from commenting. He didn't want to add that similar musings had crossed his mind multiple times during their relationship. Lying was one matter, but upkeep of the ruse was another. When he spotted Alfred through the crowd, a beacon of blond hair and white teeth adorned in a blue blazer, during a fundraising event two years ago he did not think such a fling would last. Why would Ivan desire a life of greater secrecy? But day after day, week after week, month after month, he found himself wishing for just a little more time spent together.

In his case he had anticipated the inevitable: Alfred was younger and would surely grow bored of him, wanting to replace him for the newest model. He'd earned his own prosperity and didn't have to rely on Ivan for material gain. What he wanted he could obtain on his own; there was very little Ivan could provide to keep him close. And yet Alfred stayed. Despite those times when Ivan had failed to meet him on occasion, as his business was demanding some nights.

Said business also made companionship a rare commodity. Trust wasn't an aspect Ivan gave freely, much less considered possible. Since becoming intimate with Alfred, he'd coupled with no one else. The risk outweighed whatever gains he could benefit from the act. That, and he hadn't cared to. A part of him fiercely wanted to demand if Alfred had, what lengths he may have gone, as Ivan was not naive when it came to particular aspects of their work.

He needn't have bothered. Alfred sensed his train of thought, sending him a sly glance. "Go ahead, _ask._ I know you want to."

"Say what you want to say," Ivan said. He refused to give him satisfaction in this, opting to finish the last stitch and cover the sutures in a loose bandage. Often it was better to leave a wound exposed, but he was more concerned with it staying secured. Tomorrow Alfred could remove it to help in recovery if he'd lay off the theatrics.

Since Alfred had loosely wrapped his palm to staunch the blood, Ivan indicated for him to turn in place so he could assess his head injuries next. That area, too, didn't appear hurt. Not as bad as when he'd initially cracked his skull, but damage to the head could lead to more serious concerns later if left unchecked. Alfred hesitated too long to disguise his discomfort at exposing his back, which alleviated Ivan's ire with the teasing. However he did concede, rotating in his seat to allow him a better view.

"You can relax, all right? I flirted with a couple people, but the folks around here are gullible. They just want their product and they're golden," Alfred said. His shoulders hunched at Ivan's touch, his bare fingers feeling his hair for glass or splinters.

As most head wounds were wont to do they'd bled heavily, but weren't severe. Any cuts had already closed on their own. To be on the safe side he repeated placing some fabric along his neck, and poured more vodka over the worst looking of it. Underneath the flaked and drying blood there must have remained one or two shallow gashes because the alcohol elicited another hiss from Alfred.

During this Ivan almost asked _flirted how_ when he wanted to ask _flirted with whom_. If it involved the Yakuza he was liable to resort to breaking fingers, but kept from voicing such things. Alternately, he re-bandaged Alfred's hand. The knife wound wasn't as agitated as the injury on his arm, given its recent addition. When he made to pull away Alfred curled his fingers within Ivan's own, insisting, "Where do you think you're going?"

Until Alfred reminded him with a pointed finger at his own neck, Ivan had lost track of his injuries. He grunted in assent and situated himself on the lip of the Jacuzzi tub, given he couldn't fit elsewhere and leave space for Alfred to work. While he got comfortable Alfred grabbed an armful of materials from the medicine cabinet. Then he joined him on the edge of the tub. With a finger Ivan tugged down on the front of his scarf, unveiling just enough of his neck for him to dab at the bite marks with a cotton swab doused in iodine. He'd offered Alfred his flask, but he nudged it away with the back of his hand, so Ivan drank from the container instead.

 "These scars weren't from a house fire, were they?" Alfred asked. He'd moved on to applying an antibiotic ointment, the medicine stinging far less than the iodine, but Alfred ran his thumb across and around the wound in a way to lessen the sharpness as if it did.

There wasn't an inflection like a question, but Ivan answered him anyway. "Correct."

"Mind elaborating?"

"Failed assassination attempt," Ivan said, his tone that of reading an article from a newspaper. The attack had come early on in his career; not everyone was pleased with his decision to take the business abroad. They'd come for him in his sleep with piano wire.

"Who?" Alfred asked calmly, but his tone implied that Ivan's answer should involve a comprehensive description and an address to go along with the name.

"No one you or I need ever concern ourselves with," he assured. "It was…long ago."

"Hm." Alfred slapped on a bandage. The last time Ivan was given a consonant as a response he was pestered for three weeks straight. But the night was carrying on too long and he would not indulge him.

Progressing onto his wounded leg, Ivan discarded his pants, needing assistance to shuck them off when it become apparent his knee had swollen too large to make the task manageable. Alfred pressed his fingers into the bared joint, searching crevices and muscle. "Doesn't feel broken or dislocated… I'd lay off the sports for the next couple of days if I were you, though. And stop drinking! You should probably take painkillers to reduce inflammation."

"Vodka is adequate painkiller," Ivan insisted. It'd gotten him through quite a few mishaps in the past. If his eyeroll was any indication Alfred didn't understand that statement.

He unraveled some gauze to support the knee, wrapping it around twice before breaking some chemical ice packets to brace on each side, and finished wrapping it a couple more times. Ivan needed Alfred's shoulder to rise to his feet, but once he was upright he was mobile under his own willpower.

Forgoing a shower, both of them returned to the bedroom in their various states of dress to right the bed. Unanimously they decided, without words, to get ready to sleep as if personal matters were normal. But tonight _wasn't_ normal and could never be normal. Settling onto the mattress felt as if they were bedding strangers.

Ivan more or less collapsed, only situating his knee on top of a spare pillow to keep it elevated. He'd assumed Alfred would keep to his side, but in the dark Ivan sensed him sit down and roll over until his injured limb gently settled on his chest. Without hesitation Ivan enveloped him in his arms.

"Where the fuck do we even go from here?" he asked.

There were times Alfred had asked him a similar question, although it was under different circumstances. Or so he'd _thought_. Whenever a business venture fell through or a day ran over long, Alfred or him exhausted and defeated, Ivan told him the same thing without fail. He did so now, if only to hold onto that last shred of normalcy.

"Sounds like tomorrow's problem."

Alfred nodded into his shoulder, and that was the end of it. Ivan didn't fall asleep right off, his mind still racing, and by the other man's breathing he knew he couldn't, either. It was unclear if either of them were decompressing, until Ivan blinked once and suddenly light streamed through the skylight and windows. He sucked in a deep breath, chest moving with ease as there wasn't any additional weight on his chest. Somehow Alfred had gone without him noticing.

There wasn't time for an ache to form in his chest from being alone. The soft background noise of a television set drifted into the bedroom. With considerably more effort than last night, Ivan planted both feet on the floor. He limped down the hallway, one hand on the walls, to fully take in the scope of destruction in the living space. Half the furniture was unsalvageable. Ammunition rounds pockmarked the walls and shattered windows. His specialists had covered up worse scenes, at least.

Alfred sat in what was left of the kitchen. He had resorted to the small, under-cabinet TV since his prized version was off-kilter and fried thanks to the amount of lead Ivan pumped into it. The local news station highlighting the story of last night's events was displayed on the screen. After they abandoned the site of their gang skirmish a fire had broken out. People were speculating whether it was intentional or not since any and all evidence had gone up in flames. _Good_ , Ivan thought, as it was one less headache for him to deal with later.

Alfred multitasked at the island, working on something with his hands while talking into his Bluetooth headset. Getting closer, Ivan almost stumbled and fell flat on his face when he realized the project Alfred was working on was piecing together the statue of a Russian nesting doll.

"I don't care how many planes we have left! I want those deliveries to continue like they're supposed to. If that means everyone is working in shifts at all hours until we catch up then fucking make it happen." Alfred readied to continue, but as soon as his eyes flicked up and caught sight of Ivan he said, "Whatever. I'm contacting you in three hours. Have an inventory list and schedule made up for me." And he hung up, Alfred dislodging the earpiece and tossing it onto the countertop.

His attention was fully on the task in front of him when Ivan righted a barstool and took a seat close enough to prop his leg on the bottom rung of Alfred's own chair. They refrained from their usual tidings of good morning and other such pretenses. Alfred didn't seem inclined to broach the subject of yesterday and probably wouldn't have acknowledged him again if Ivan didn't speak first. "I have been thinking and…I may have a proposal for you."

In the process of setting a porcelain section in place Alfred's hands stilled. He aborted the motion, setting the delicate piece aside and capping the adhesive to sit back. "Okay."

"You conduct your business by air, yes?"

"It's a distinct possibility," Alfred said.

Ivan pretended that was a confirmation. "And I have control of the docks. Would it not make more sense to consider a merger of sorts?"

"A merger," he parroted, staring him down over the rim of his glasses. "As in, what? You think my crew will go for that after going toe-to-toe with you for two years running? That I'm willing to _settle?_ "

Clasping his hands together, Ivan leaned to the side and rested an elbow on the granite. "As partners. Equals. We split, fifty-fifty. With all modes of transport into and out of the city covered there is no reason not to share, rather than oppose each other. We are better suited together."

"A merger," Alfred murmured again, sounding as if he were speaking more to himself than at Ivan. He used a knuckle to brush his glasses back up his face, though he stared off somewhere just above Ivan's shoulder. Coming to a conclusion he focused back on him. "You're serious?"

Ivan said, "Deadly serious."

"Alrighty then." The agreement came suddenly. Alfred held out a hand and it took a moment for everything to sink in before Ivan reached out his own. They shook on it. "We're partners."

"Partners," Ivan agreed. He waited all of five seconds before adding, "Now you drop the Yakuza."

" _I knew it!_ " Alfred tilted his head back, about to run both hands through his hair until his injuries reminded him of what a strain that was. He settled on pointing an accusing finger at him, to which Ivan ignored by getting up to make tea. The kettle, at least, had survived their onslaught. While he was at it he could grab an ice pack for his swollen eye. "There is always a catch. I am not disassociating with the Yakuza."

"You do not need them. You are with Bratva now," Ivan insisted, milling about the kitchen. Alfred followed his progress by rotating the stool accordingly.

"Even if, and it's a big fat _if_ , I wanted to that's just not a possibility. The payoff and credibility I'd need are not exactly in my repertoire. Because, might I remind you, someone has been blowing up my airplanes and—" he paused to indicate the television where a still of a giant fireball took up the whole screen, "I just lost my last abandoned airstrip. Funds are a little tight for me right this minute and I kind of need their privately owned airports to keep running."

"Nonsense. Planes are small change compared to boats. I buy you new ones, then we purchase these Yakuza run airfields. That should appease them. Consider it a joint investment, if you like."

"Buy them off _with what?_ I've been undermining your profits for months!" Alfred wasn't so easily swayed, and continued to argue as much. The back and forth was familiar, even if the subject matter wasn't. As he leaned against the counter waiting for the water to boil the tension in Ivan's shoulders eased.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content!


End file.
